


Nightcall

by expectopatronuts



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Light Angst, Mercy is a hot mess and Moira has feelings, Post-Break Up, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Unrequited Love, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuts/pseuds/expectopatronuts
Summary: “I know you didn’t want to hear this,” Moira said quietly. "But say something. Please."Angela looked at her and saw an honestly in her face that was almost vulnerable.I had to tell you, it said.I feel, and I wanted you to know.





	Nightcall

**Author's Note:**

> hey so this is my contribution to Valentine's Day  
> 100% of the inspiration for this was the song Nightcall by Kavinsky, but if you want some more synth-y stuff to listen while you read, may I recommend Odd Look also by Kavinsky and Living in a French Movie by Hante

“Welcome to Atlas News Radio. This is Eva Gessner with Today at a Glance.”

As Eva Gessner went on the air, Angela looked at the time display on the corner of her holo-screen. _23:58_ , it informed her. She stretched, then bent her head over the table of data and highlighted the outliers. She plugged them into the formula again and waited as the computer redid the calculations.

“London. The British Prime Minister has announced his intention to ban all Overwatch activity in the country.” There was a click, and then the voice of the Prime Minister. “The Armed Forces are more than capable of dealing with the current situation. Null Sector poses no threat to the civilian population, and I assure you—I assure you, ladies and gentlemen—that King’s Row and surrounding areas are _not_ under control of terrorist forces.”

“Fool,” Angela muttered under her breath. “At this rate, London will burn before this is over.”

The computer finally spat out a list of numbers, row after row of them, and Angela scanned them quickly. She felt the steady throb of exhaustion pushing steadily behind her eyes, and for a second the numbers blurred all together forming a black block. Then, she was able to make out individual lines again and set to hunting down her mistake.

“The Irish Taoiseach has already issued a message stating that they will cooperate with Overwatch fully. Captain Ana Amari has, in turn, expressed her thanks in the name of the organization.” A click, and Amari’s voice came from the speaker. “We are very thankful to Taoiseach McKellar for their support and cooperation. Retiring our troops from the London war zone will be no easy task, and the spirit of cooperation that the Irish government is showing is more laudable than ever.”

Eva Gessner came back with news from Berlin just as Angela decided that there was no mistake in the calculations. She groaned softly as she rubbed her eyes. She had to have carried a mistake with her, and she had no idea how far back the problem could go. Maybe all the way back to the blueprint plans, tentatively labelled ‘Rod of Asclepius’.

Just as another announcer let her know that it was 00:03 and welcomed her to a program called Nightime Novelty, Angela tapped the screen and switched stations.

“—good. Now take a deep breath into your chakras. Feel how—”

Angela frowned slightly. She was more than familiar with the joys of night-time radio—insomnia would do that to a person—and yet it seemed like every day the programs got weirder and weirder. She switched again.

“Das ARS Nachtkonzert, präsentiert von—”

Satisfied with her station of choice, Angela went back to examining all data—might as well work, if she couldn’t sleep—gathered during Project Valkyrie so far. She immersed herself in her work, hummed along to the music from time to time, and only looked up when an ad broke her concentration.

“Valentine’s Day is the most wonderful opportunity to show some love,” proclaimed a woman.

Angela huffed. “Yes, and it’s also over now, technically.”

Oblivious, the woman went on expounding on the virtues of 50% discount store brand chocolate.

In fact, Angela had received some 50% discount chocolate herself. It had been sweet, really, if a little uncomfortable. Genji had pronounced her name wrong, as he always did—McCree’s influence, Angela was sure—and he had even apologetically added that no, it wasn't Swiss chocolate. Angela had thanked him, and he hadn’t said anything else. It had been left at that, and Angela hoped it would stay at that.

Just as she was spiralling down into a detailed review of her past love life, her phone rang from somewhere in the depths of the pockets of her lab coat. Normally, Angela wasn’t one to pick up the phone. She let it ring, and if it was truly important, whoever it was would ring again or track her through Athena if she was on base. But in her book calls in the early hours of the morning didn't qualify as normal, so she got up and fished around her pockets until her phone came out.

It was an unknown caller. The number was Swiss, and Angela recognized the Zürich area code. She could think of no Overwatch agents with Zürich area code numbers, and besides, she had most of them saved anyway. Someone from the hospital, then? An ex-colleague calling in a favour?

 _Incoming call: unknown caller_ was all the screen said, and then a number.

A friend of her brother’s, trying to reach him? Someone from university who had held on to her number, calling from abroad?

The phone kept ringing as she stared at it, vibrating in her hand. But there was no information to be gained from looking at it, so finally Angela swiped right and put the phone to her ear with a little frown.

“Ziegler.”

For a second, there was only silence. Then, the rustle of movement and an intake of breath. Finally, a voice.

“Hello. It’s me.”

It was like cold water had been dumped over her. Angela closed her eyes and leaned against the window, pressing her forehead on the cool glass. She inhaled deeply—a deep breath into her chakras might do her good right about now—and exhaled slowly.

Maybe, she thought, this was all one of those insomnia-induced visions—hallucinations, a part of her brain supplied and the other immediately rejected. Maybe she would open her eyes and find herself seated in front of the screen, staring into row after row of numbers, her phone tucked deep in her pocket and Brahms coming from the radio.

But when she opened her eyes, what she saw was the deserted parking lot and what she heard was the low static of silence on the other side of the line.

Finally, her brain clicked back into gear. _Hang up_ , it screamed at her. _Hang up, engelchen. Be a clever girl. Hang up that phone and block the number. Better yet, hang up the phone, block the number, and ask out Fareeha tomorrow_.

Instead, almost of their own accord, words fell from her mouth.

“What do you want?”

* * *

Moira let out the breath she had been holding.

Angela hadn’t hung up, which meant she was past the first checkpoint. She was sure Angela had only picked up in the first place because she didn't have her new number saved, but still, she'd take what she could get.

“To talk to you,” she said.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

“So talk,” Angela said finally. There was a steely undertone in her voice. 

“I—Not like this,” Moira said. She swallowed. She knew she was pushing her luck, but some things had to be said face to face. “Not over the phone. Let’s go for a drive.” She had no idea why she said that, but she decided to go with it. “I can come pick you up.”

More silence. Then, in an slightly puzzled voice, “Have you been drinking?”

Moira let out a short bark of laughter.

“I wish,” she said. “But no. So, can I come over, or...?”

This time, the silence stretched on for a full ten seconds.

“Angela?” Moira asked tentatively. “Are you—”

“I’m here.”

“So—” She cleared her throat. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

Moira held her breath. On the other end of the line, there was a shuffling sound, like the phone was being readjusted. She closed her eyes, waiting for the click that would end the call, that would end all chance that she had of—

“Alright.”

_Click._

In the dark of her apartment, Moira looked at the display of her phone, bewildered. _Call ended: Angela_.

“She said alright,” she said to the empty appartment. Finley, her month-old Doberman, whined in his sleep. “She said alright,” she repeated, as though in a daze. “I need to put trousers on.”

* * *

The streets were mostly deserted, traffic lights blinking yellow, lighting the inside of Moira’s car intermittently as she sped past rows of houses. As she pulled up in front of Overwatch Headquarters, she could feel a tendril of nervousness uncoiling in her stomach. She took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel tighter. The palms of her hands felt slippery against the old rubber.

By the time the passenger door opened, Moira was so tightly wound that she almost jumped. Then, she managed a smile that felt rather shaky.

“Hello,” she said.

Angela was wearing a blue turtleneck—the one with a hole in the shoulder—and jeans. She smiled a smile so brief that it almost wasn’t there.

“Hello, Moira,” she said quietly as she got in.

Moira shifted into drive and the car started with a low vibration, testimony to its age. The yellow traffic lights drew shines from Angela’s hair that were like dull gold.

She didn’t really know where she was going—hell, she didn’t know what she was doing—but when a signpost gave her a choice between _Zentrum_ (left, white sign) and _Alle Richtungen_  (right, blue sign), she chose the latter and followed the road until it dropped her onto the empty highway.

 _Winterthur, 25 km. Konstanz, 70 km_ , another sign informed her. There were two other more destinations this highway could take them to, but Moira didn’t really care. She just drove, her gaze fixed on the bright cones that her mains lighted on the concrete surface.

She was very aware of Angela’s presence next to her, almost painfully so. She could pick up a faint, sweet smell—she still used the same shampoo—and she could see that she had scraped the back of her left hand.

“Are you kidnapping me?”

The question was spoken in such a normal tone that for a moment Moira didn’t register Angela’s words. She might have asked about the weather, her voice had been so quiet, so utterly unalarmed.

“What?” Moira glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “No. Of course not.”

“Ah.”

“Why would you think that?”

The corner of Angela’s mouth twitched. It was almost like a nervous tick.

“It’s just, for someone who wanted to talk, you’re awfully quiet.”

Moira opened her mouth, then closed it again. A car was approaching from the other direction, a speck of light on the road.

She licked her lips and was about to speak when the other car honked, a loud, blaring sound that disturbed the quiet of the night and made Moira jump in her seat. Before she could react, Angela reached all the way across and flicked the little lever that controlled the lights. The cone of light in front of the car dimmed.

“You had your brights on,” Angela said. “You probably blinded them.”

The other driver honked again.

“Oh, stuff it,” Moira muttered in response.

A fleeting smile crossed Angela’s face, then was gone. The shadows played across her face, making her look impossibly young and impossibly tired. Moira looked back to the road, drew in a breath, and opened her mouth to speak.

* * *

Angela watched Moira out of the corner of her eye as her mouth worked silently for a second.

“Angela, I—” She stopped, closed her mouth, opened it again. It was like the words were stuck in her throat and she was struggling to get them out. “I’m sorry.”

Angela shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. She looked down at her hands and picked at the scab on the back of her left. _Sorry_. Yes, she was sorry too, about a great many things. But she didn’t want to talk about it; she didn’t want to think about it; most of all, she didn’t want to hear Moira say it.

But Moira kept going.

“I did wrong by you,” she said. “When things ended, I wasn’t—I was—I was awful. And you—I—oh, Jesus.” She broke off and ran a hand through her hair. “I was wrong.”

The scab came loose with a little moment of pain, and Angela was able to breathe a little better. The small pain made a good distraction. It was something she had learnt a long time ago.

“I was wrong, and I'm sorry,” Moira said again. And then, just when Angela thought she was finished, “I love you.”

They were cruising downhill at a steady speed now, and had passed no other cars. Angela watched the landscape roll by as she tried to determine what she felt upon hearing that declaration. She came up empty-handed from her search.

“Please say something.”

Moira spoke looking straight ahead, but Angela heard a sort of desperate quality to her voice. She turned towards her and couldn’t quite bring herself to look her in the face. Instead, she looked at the car display. It was 1: 23, and an orange warning light was blinking.

“You’re low on gas,” Angela said, softly.

Moira’s eyes darted to the display.  She said nothing for a while, and changed lanes when a sign announced a gas station: 1km. She left her blinker on to signal their exit. She cruised around the building and came to a stop next to one of the pumps, too near to be able to open the door. She reversed, craning her head over her shoulder, and tried again.

Angela followed her out of the car and stood by, watching as Moira filled up the tank. The fuel made a sloshing sound as it poured into the car.

After a second of silence, Moira turned to her.

“I know you didn’t want to hear this,” she said quietly. "But say something. Please."

Angela looked at her and saw an honestly in her face that was almost vulnerable. _I had to tell you_ , it said. _I feel, and I wanted you to know_.

“They’re talking about you,” she said, instead of answering Moira. “They’re saying you’ve perfected your ‘biotic grasp’. Convert death into life, right?” She smiled mirthlessly. She had no idea why she was talking about this, but it was better than the silence. “Just conservation of energy, I suppose you'll say.”

Angela thought Moira would defend herself, justify her research. Instead, she only spread her hands in a helpless gesture. _I only wanted to see if I could_ , it seemed to say. _I didn't mean for any of this to happen_. 

“Do you hate me?”  

The question was so innocent, childish in a way, that it caught Angela totally by surprise. The answer rose up from somewhere in her chest and was out before she could process it.

“No. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

Moira’s eyes locked with hers. She took a step forward, and it was all Angela could do to look back steadily.

It barely lasted a second. Moira’s lips brushed hers so softly, Angela could have imagined it. Then she stepped back. There was a question in her eyes.

“Don’t.” Angela whispered. “Please don’t.”

They were standing so close together, Angela could see the steady rise and fall of Moira’s chest, feel her breath on her cheek.

“I love you,” she said.

Angela closed her eyes briefly. She felt empty. She felt nothing. She tried to think of something to say, anything, but no words would come. Instead, she shook her head mutely and averted her gaze.

Moira sidestepped around her and opened the door for her without a word. She put the nozzle back in its place and paid for the gas as Angela went in and huddled in the passenger seat. As they drove out, Angela saw an ad for chocolates—50% off and won’t it be romantic!—in the window of the building.

Then, they were on the road again.

* * *

Moira drove in silence and willed the pressure in her chest down. She felt like she was walking a very thin edge. One false step, and she would surely fall. But somehow she managed to keep it together, and gradually the signs changed from _Zürich, 40km_ to _20km,_ then _10km_ , and finally the exit towards the city.

It wasn’t until she pulled up in front of the Overwatch building that she noticed that Angela’s breathing had become deep, slow with the steady quality of sleep. Moira looked at her—her hair fell on her cheek and over her neck, her head rested against the door, and the pale light of the night made the circles under her eyes almost purple. For almost a full minute, Moira let the engine idle, watching her. She knew how little sleep she got, something always kept her up—worry, or pain in her back from the thousands of punctures in the nerve where the wings of her suit went in, or grief for their latest loss, or insomnia, pure and simple.

Finally, when the pressure in her chest was dangerously high and she felt like something might spill, she looked away from her face and touched her shoulder. She tried to be gentle, but Angela woke up with a start nonetheless. She looked around wildly until she got her bearings, then turned to Moira. Her blue eyes looked impossibly pale. 

“Goodnight, Moira,” she said simply before getting out of the car. 

The door shut behind her before Moira could get out a single word. With a silent sigh, she shifted into gear, glanced out of her wing mirror out of reflex—there was no traffic at 2:04 a.m.—and drove away without looking back.

* * *

Angela heard Moira’s engine muffled through the glass door. She stood in the darkness of the foyer of Overwatch Headquarters for a second, then two, thinking she wouldn’t turn back, she wouldn’t, because she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand it if Moira was looking back, she wasn't sure—

She turned, so suddenly that her hair whipped at her cheek. All she saw were Moira’s taillights, two bright dots that cast deeper shadows. 

·◊◊◊· 

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> let me know your thoughts? or just recommend some synthpop I could write to in the future, either is fine :)


End file.
